


Leather and Lace

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [11]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Baby!BatCat, Batman/Catwoman - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gumshoe Detective Work, Original Character Death (mentioned/referenced), Partnerships and Proposals, Vigilantes in black leather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 15:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18527929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: "You're gonna make me wear white, aren't you?"





	Leather and Lace

Her first bullwhip is a tongue-in-cheek gift from Zsasz’s girls. Well, technically it’s her second: Selina found her first (see also: stole from) in a back-alley BDSM shop; everything about it was frayed and around-the-block. In short, the poor thing needed to be put out of its’ misery and she gave it five more years of unnecessary work.

The day she turns twenty-five, the affectionately-titled Zsaszettes come by for the bi-monthly visit and bring her a present wrapped in pink silk ribbon. “Time for an upgrade.” Tanesha says with her characteristic smirk; the expression widens when Selina, willing to play along with the cheeky insinuation, ties the ribbon in her hair.

She’s still wearing it that night, a stream of bright pink nestled in wild honey, when she hits up the same BDSM parlor for an upgrade in wardrobe.

***

It takes about five weeks, mostly because the papers are obsessed with accounts of the masked defender of the night, but then new reports begin trickling across the headlines: a sleek figure in black prowling the rooftops and alleyways absent additional detail save that she is, most certainly, of the female persuasion. Like her counterpart, leather shields betraying features which would name her. Together, the duo is a ghosting presence with stealth and agility declared otherworldly; the more illustrious media outlets christen them as phantoms avenging wrongs and passing judgement to those who intend evil. Street-level gang members and small-time crooks are their prey, and there is no defense.

***

“His name’s Rupert Thorne,” Officer Steers says, and hands Iris a thin file from police records; he called an hour prior to this impromptu meeting with a request to speak on an urgent matter, and comes accompanied by Detective Harold Autumn, “he came into town last year but stayed off the radar for a while.”

“Until, that is,” Detective Autumn has been on the force even longer than Gordon, and though the captain offered him a promotion twice in three years, the bearded veteran has elected to remain in his current position; Iris prefers it, as she’s found him to be an exceptional mentor for the new academy recruits, “two nights ago, when he showed up in a suburb of the Summer Set district. Nothing much out there except Arkham, as you know, but we have a few small low-income tenants setting up camp.”

It’s well-known that the Narrows are predominantly the low-income territory, where people live hand-to-mouth and sell their neighbor’s soul if the Devil offers a crust of bread. In the past three months alone, Iris and Oswald have weathered some minor upheavals from residents therein, and consequently have been engaged in ‘aggressive negotiations’ with each other as to how best handle the matter.

In short, this new dilemma is not a welcome development.

Iris reviews the photos with steel in her eyes and a ripple of annoyance along the jawline. Over her shoulder, Selina shares the view with similar expression. By Gotham’s notorious standards, it is not the most gruesome spectacle; still, there is something distasteful about victims who could be (and very likely were) grandparents.

“Has he been arrested?” Iris asks the obvious question because it’s the one her soldiers have not yet addressed. Selina knows her commander’s strategies now with the same intimacy as she knows the safe lock combination for the jeweler on 3rd Street.

“He skipped town the night before it happened.” Autumn reports, his expression grave to report such failings, “The punks who did the dirty work are in lock-up. You have my personal assurance to be at every court hearing. I want the bastards to fry for this.”

Detective Autumn buried his grandparents six months ago. He’ll take this case personally. “Harold,” Iris says at length, “How are the new recruits coming?”

“One of the best batches they’ve sent me so far.”

“How many are ready for the streets?”

“I can have five uniformed by next week.”

“Excellent,” her voice is a low murmur of satisfaction, then it quickly sharpens once more to an authoritative command, “Calvin,” she speaks, and her youngest soldier straightens to attention, “at that time, you and William will be provided leave separate from your personal vacation time. I want to know Rupert Thorne’s story – from the moment he was born, and every step he has taken up to the one used to enter my city.”

“Consider every stone unturned, ma’am.” Calvin says, and both men exit. The following silence is short-lived.

“Selina,” Iris speaks, and her lieutenant stands at her side without a sound, “what are the odds there were only two rats left behind in their master’s wake?”

“I’m not a betting woman, Iris,” Selina reserves the informal address for when they are alone, “but if I was, I’d say those odds are circling in the negative.”

“Precisely.” From the shadows, Shakta slowly lumbers forward to rest an aging head atop her mistress’ thigh; Iris obligingly strokes the tiger’s crown, but does not distract from her existing thought, “Find the others and bring them to me.”

“Alive?”

“Preferably.”

“Intact?”

“I leave that matter to your discretion.” Iris answers in a whisper, and Selina’s lips thin in cool amusement.

***

Three weeks later find Selina in a now-familiar perch: a rooftop facing a hole-in-the-wall sports bar on the south side of town with a pair of binoculars on her nose and a cherry Ring Pop on her left finger to be enjoyed in intervals.

In the back of her mind, Selina knows this is more of Zsasz’s realm of expertise; if Iris wants something swiped from an attempted-rival’s safe deposit box, Selina’s on it like flies on honey. Tracking down street rats to flush them out isn’t really her thing, but she’s a girl who enjoys a challenge and doesn’t mind passing her nights on cold concrete.

It’s been a bit of a chore to track these guys down; they’re obviously a lot of things, but they know how to avoid patterns. They’ve never frequented the same place twice, except this eyesore. It’s always crowded (too many people on this side of town have a thing for cheap booze and loud music) and she has, to date, been unable to find a way to isolate the punks. Unlike Zsasz, she prefers to execute with finesse, not force.

“Is this a private party?”

She smirks but doesn’t lower her binoculars. “Depends. Do you have an invitation?”

Magnified in the binocular lens, a manila file folder appears in front of her face. “Does this work?” the hiss of leather precedes Bruce’s kneeling at her left side; she privately takes note of the new design. He must have put in a work order with Lucius.

She takes the file with two fingers, drops the binoculars to the side, and starts skimming. It takes three seconds for her eyebrows to bob high, “He applied for a position at Wayne Enterprises.” Her tone is flat and dry, “Seriously.”

“Security.” Bruce answers; he keeps his tone low, exceptionally so, when he wears the mask, “Lucius flushed him out in five minutes. I think the prison tattoo had something to do with it…especially since he didn’t mention a criminal history on his application.”

Selina smirks, “Imagine that.” She licks a fingertip and turns a few more pages before settling on one of particular interest, “Well, well…looks like Mr. Rhodes has a taste for young prostitutes.”

It is a testament to their relationship, that it takes Bruce under ten seconds to read between the lines and reach an accurate conclusion. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Come on, baby,” Selina purrs; green eyes gleam in diluted street lamps, “you know I look good in glitter and stilettos.”

She can’t technically see him roll his eyes, but the action is definitely implied in his tone, “You just want to play dress-up.”

(Yes, she does, but a girl deserves a little frivolity.)

As it turns out, a pair of hot-pink-glitter stiletto heels and a glossy blonde wig is just what the sleaze-bag ordered. His eyes are glued to her neckline as soon as she sidles up beside him and asks for a light. From there, she purrs an offer of ‘discounted service’ in the alley behind the bar.

He makes a comment about stepping to the john before they get started and comes back with his two friends. Selina cracks her gum and cocks an eyebrow, “I charge extra for the group sessions.”

“I’m sure we can work somet’ing out.” The one guy says; he’s not the rejected Wayne applicant, but he’s equally inked up and there’s something _really_ weird going on with his hair, “How’s about we see the goods first?”

Selina plays coy; fingers tease down the straps of her dress, inch by inch, until she exposes the fully creamy bronze of one shoulder and upper arm. For good measure, the supple curve of one breast can be glimpsed even if not fully on display. The dogs are salivating. One has grabby hands.

“Easy, cowboy,” she takes a dainty step backwards, playing shy, and gives a smile to match, “Money first.”

“Don’t tease, suga’.” A second man says, licking his lips with an audible smack, “You take care of us. We take care o’ you.”

“That’s enough.” Another man’s voice, but this one comes from the shadows: black leather and vengeance to his lady’s side. In minutes, the alley is littered with the unconscious and groaning.

“Just can’t help yourself, can you?” Selina coils her whip in one hand with green eyes narrowed at him, “I had this _under control_.”

“Obviously,” Bruce makes a point to adjust her strap back to its rightful place before continuing, in the same unimpressed tone, “What happened to money first?”

In the time it takes to blink, she now hears his tone for what it actually is and cracks a grin, “Aww, baby…were you jealous?” the whip snaps around his waist as an anchor, and she knows the accusation is right on the money (pun slightly intended) when Bruce steps in to frame her between leather-clad muscle, “You know I’d never let them get your show.”

“I like to make sure of it,” in this fleeting moment, he becomes Bruce once more with a smirk visible beneath the mask and faintly apparent in his eyes; in the next, voices approach from inside the bar and it’s time to go.

The next morning, Selina bypasses the aptly-named ‘trial room’ and deposits the trio in the basement with a note taped to Rhodes’ forehead.

Zsasz should be home in about an hour. He can take it from there.

***

Lucius Fox received the promotion to Bruce Wayne’s right-hand in Wayne Enterprises approximately one year after the purge of all existing employees was finally completed; not mentioned in the official declaration was a handful of extracurricular responsibilities to include equipment modifications, wardrobe functionality, system design, and unlicensed therapist…for the butler.

“Personally I think Miss Kyle has grown into quite a lovely young woman.” Lucius says over afternoon tea; if there is a bit of liquor mixed in with the leaves, neither man is admitting to it, “Intelligent. Sharp sense of humor. Good with her hands.”

“Being able to whip together a five-course meal with no notice is being good with the hands.” Alfred retorts, “Cracking a safe in ten seconds is not the same bloody thing.”

It benefits Lucius, after almost two years of recycled commentary on young Master Wayne’s choice of female companions, to simply nod his head and continue enjoying the refreshments. He has provided his obligatory observation, the content of which will invite Alfred’s own declarations on the matter, and now there is nothing but tea.

Thank goodness, there is tea.

Of course, it is hardly a kept-secret that Alfred harbors mixed feelings toward Miss Kyle; though the initial days of outright condemning the young affair between street thief and budding billionaire have tempered considerably, there remains the matter of nightly activities which – while not outright forbidden (as though that would make a difference) – remain a point of, shall one say, regular dispute. Alfred blames poor influences and boredom.

Frankly, Lucius can’t imagine a young billionaire has much else to do but be bored.

When Bruce starts personally escorting Miss Kyle (bearing the tasteful guise of Miss Isis West) to social engagements, Alfred’s protests are curbed, albeit only in the name of propriety. When certain incidents occur – for instance, an attempted robbery at the art gala – and are subsequently addressed by the named duo with clever maneuvering, a bit of overdone dramatics, and not a stitch of black leather, the argument begins to lose momentum.

When six months of attempts to introduce ‘alternative arrangements of the female persuasion’ result not only in private refusals but also a particularly saucy display on the dance floor at the Wayne Enterprises Charity Ball, Alfred Pennyworth finally admits defeat.

***

It’s been about eight months, but Detective Autumn and Officer Steers finally return to their don’s doorstep bearing reports, interview notes, tales to tell, and (in Officer Steers’ case) a rather impressive five o’clock shadow…a few months in the making.

“Red won’t let me shave it.” Steers says with a crooked grin that makes the thick tuff of strawberry-blonde around his mouth pop to the left, “She says it keeps folks from asking what grade I’m in.”

Personally, Selina agrees. The kid officer has always been too baby-faced for his own good.

“This one’s a slippery eel, She-Wolf.” Detective Autumn says, with the tone of one most displeased to deliver such news, “He keeps his hands clean, so if anything ever can stick, it never lasts.”

“’Course,” Steers pipes up, “if the cases were handled by someone _not_ on Thorne’s payroll…” he trails off, because the rest can go unsaid. The thin line that is Iris’ mouth clearly expresses her awareness of the situation.

“Doesn’t look like he’s back in town yet,” Autumn adds, “but he’s already left a mark here. It won’t be long before he shows his face again.”

“Let him.” Iris answers coolly, and pushes the file back to her soldiers until next it is needed, “I will be waiting.”

***

Thorne’s soldiers are given a deal for their actions in the Summer Set district: six months jail with time served. They’re out two weeks after the gavel falls.

“I told you _three years ago_ ,” Iris drags out the emphasis just because she can, and possibly because Oswald visibly flinches at the reminder, “that woman had to go. She is a joke, and she is an insult to what you and I have created!”

District Attorney Blossom was lifted to her current position by popular vote; at the time, it can only be assumed the people were taken in by her promises of ‘a fair trial for all’ while also swearing to uphold the taken oath. Suffice to say, her true tactics and approach to crime and punishment are as fragile and soft as her surname, with more interest in clearing a docket than actively pursuing justice.

“The people chose her, Iris.” Oswald attempts to pacify even when the attempt will be tragically wasted now that Iris has taken this latest injury so personally, “What would you suggest? Strong-arming public opinion for my own agenda?”

“Wishful thinking on your part, Oswald.” She retorts, “The damage is done; we must suffer one more year of her residency before a new party takes the mantle. By that time, we will have ascended a worthy candidate into public approval and ensure his – or her – victory.”

Oswald has reservations as to what qualifies a ‘worthy candidate’ in Iris’ opinion, but has enough sense to bite his tongue and go back to his birds.

Across town, the same topic is at work in a different conversation: this time, in an illustrious little café lofted on Main Street. The table is set for two, and the conversation started as soon as both patrons were seated, approximately thirty minutes prior.

“Five months. FIVE months I spent prepping that case.” Harvey says, while his lunch companion gives a compassionate hum and continues sipping an early glass of wine, “And for what? To be told by my chief that the case was being plead out with a tap on the wrist and a get-out-of-jail card.”

Harvey Dent came to the District Attorney’s office six years prior: at the time, a fresh-faced law graduate with a resume plush with internships and short-term employment in a multitude of private law firms across the state. He’s since gained reputation as a vigorous pursuer of justice, from low-level misdemeanor offenses to (at present) violent crimes. Often accused by colleagues as ruthless and absent reason, Harvey’s reputation among the citizens is nothing less than favorable: those directly associated with his prosecuted cases openly praise his mannerisms toward the bereaved and injured, and even the most unreasonable defense attorney cannot condemn his sense of professionalism. Likewise, he is a favored name at the GCPD, with officers (including their captain) confident any case handled by Mr. Dent will, indeed, be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Two years ago, the paths of Harvey Dent and Bruce Wayne crossed at a small social function; three years older than the billionaire CEO, Harvey was nonetheless impressed with Bruce’s clever wit, formal education, and (in private moments) rather emphatic views on the current legal system’s shortcomings. A friendship was born over glasses of champagne and was solidified four hours later on the veranda.

Today, Bruce insisted on lifting Harvey’s spirits with cocktails and steak. It is not a foil-proof remedy, but few things ever are.

“Carl and Rosaline Moor were good, honest, hard-working people.” Harvey continues, tossing back half his drink in one go, “They’d fallen on hard times, but they were getting back on their feet. And now that’s all over, because Rupert Thorne devalued their lives into a front-page spread to get his name out on the streets.” He takes another long drink, and Bruce makes a mental note to get food in his belly before refills are brought, “So why not add salt to the wound? Tell the family their loved ones weren’t worth an actual prison sentence.”

He drops the glass back on the tablecloth with unnecessary force; it wrinkles the white fabric, and Bruce quietly tugs a corner back into proper order. “Maybe you should run for office once Blossom’s term is up.” He says, sipping his refreshment with less enthusiasm.

Harvey offers a derisive snort in response. “Sure, Bruce. I’ll get right on that.”

A pause, then the prosecutor glances up to see an uncommonly serious expression on Bruce’s face. “…What?” Harvey says, “You mean it?”

The responsive eyebrow lift is a little too close to ‘Duh, stupid’ for Dent’s personal taste. “Not happening, Bruce.” He shakes his head, “I don’t do politics.”

“So?” the billionaire quips, “Hire someone to handle the politics for you. Blossom has to go, and the people are already in your corner.”

Harvey pauses, clearly giving the idea more thought than originally intended, “Not sure I’m really cut out for this, Bruce.”

“Sure you are.” Bruce cracks a grin at him, “You the best prosecutor in the office. The people love you. And you’ll look great in front of the cameras.”

“Smart ass,” Harvey retorts, too fondly to be genuinely chagrined, and the conversation moves to other topics.

***

A private invitation to Bruce Wayne’s downtown penthouse, usually nestled inside a concrete crevice on her favorite rooftop, is a common occurrence these days. Most nights, Selina shows up in her leather, bull whip at the ready in case Bruce is planning a night on the town; tonight, the invitation specifically requested she wear her pearls. She dons the midnight-blue silk dress which is, unquestionably, Bruce’s favorite (if past experiences are any indication), slips into her best heels, and even enters through the front door like a perfect lady.

Bruce has dinner waiting: a romantic little table-for-two complete with candles and a single red rose in the center. He helps Selina out of her velvet wrap (a birthday present from the charming playboy himself to honor her twenty-first year) and personally escorts her to the table. She’s far too accustomed to him being a perfect gentleman to make sassy remarks, though the teasing glint in green eyes can never fully be tempered.

Over wine and dessert, Bruce pulls out a red-velvet box and offers its contents; he has enough sense to not get down on bended-knee, mostly because Selina might pop him across the cheek for it. She can swallow lavish candlelit dinners with grace, but there are degrees of chivalry which simply cannot be tolerated.

She examines the ring carefully, then cocks an eyebrow at him, “You had this custom designed, didn’t you?”

He grins, “I had to make sure it was something you couldn’t have just stolen.”

It’s her turn to smile, now, as he slips the ring into its place on her finger: a glittering ensemble of white diamond and opal on a silver band; the smaller stones encase what might be the biggest emerald ever put on a woman’s finger.

“You’re gonna make me wear white, aren’t you?” Selina asks, even as his hands enfold her cheeks and his face draws near with eyes in a languid descent.

“Mm hm,” he smirks, half a second before his mouth is put to better use.

***

Bruce would have happily carried her off to the courthouse without further ado, but Alfred insists they are married in a proper church. Two weeks after the candlelit proposal, Bruce Wayne stands at the altar in a small upstate chapel in a crisp new tuxedo. Alfred, Lucius, and Captain Jim Gordon stand at his side; the former two in shades of royal blue, while the latter dons his police uniform.

Selina carries herself with pure feline confidence and grace: a contemporary vision in dazzling white with a scandalous slit in the skirt and her bullwhip coiled low at the hips. Her hair is a loose halo of honey and gold under lace, and a perpetual smile curves lips painted luscious red.

The exchanged vows are traditional enough, but Selina enjoys little as much as she enjoys toeing the lines of social acceptability, so she beats the priest to the punch on the whole ‘You may kiss the bride’ bit: roping her arms around his neck, she pulls Bruce to her lips to deliver a kiss worthy of documented record.

They honeymoon in New Orleans. In their absence, the media buzz dies down regarding the strange duo of night-avengers, and reports filter in as to the newcomer pressing in on Gotham’s underworld, and what the response will be from law enforcement and organized crime alike.

Two weeks later, the honeymoon is over. And it’s back to business.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I know season 1 of Gotham introduced Harvey Dent as being around Jim Gordon's age. I've made a couple minor adjustments to keep Harvey and Bruce closer in age because theirs is a wonderful friendship that simply shouldn't be messed with.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing related to "Gotham" or the Batman franchise. I'm playing in the sandbox.
> 
> Reviews are love. :)


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